


you can let go ('cause someone will catch you)

by spiderboyneedsahug



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: FTW, Helen Cho is a sweetheart who gets mentioned but nothing else :(, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, dad tony, no beta we die like men, she's got her part in my upcoming wip don't worry tho, soft boy too pure. needs hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 18:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16707646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: Peter's not been sick since the spider bite. Hasn't really missed it, either.Guess what.





	you can let go ('cause someone will catch you)

**Author's Note:**

> based off a prompt sent in to my tumblr:
> 
> Peter’s sick and his spidey-sense is just constantly going off until he’s better

It takes a long time for Peter to wake up, and that’s probably the first thing he should have payed attention to. He never usually feels so  _ slow _ in the mornings, and he’s had some truly terrible mornings before now. So why…? Even his senses aren’t working properly when he opens his eyes — namely, the only noises he can hear are loud ones. Sure, he’s woken up congested before, but this time it doesn’t feel injury-related. Or if it is, it’s numb, which is bad. Groggily, Peter sits upright despite the sudden headrush, and ignores how the room shifts around slightly as he squints at it. Groaning quietly, he pushes himself off his bed, grunting as his back impacts the hard floor but not moving much further. It’s not much warmer down there, either, so already Peter’s morning has been about as much fun as a deflated balloon for a child. 

 

The longer he spends on the floor, the weirder his grogginess becomes to think about. Patrol wasn’t  _ that _ rough last night, so he doesn’t understand why he’s so exhausted all of a sudden. Maybe it’s just the past few nights of late patrolling that’s starting to accumulate and weigh him down. Yeah, that has to be it. 

 

Still shivering slightly, Peter pushes himself to his feet with a slight stumble and treads over to his closet, pulling out a simple sweater and jeans. Maybe it’s a bit more casual than what he would normally wear to school, but he’s tired and pretty cold. Sue him. After tugging the sweater on and ignoring how messy his hair has gotten between getting up and getting dressed, he yawns, stretches, and moves to the bathroom. The fact that he can hear his footsteps — clumsy, loud — when he’s normally silent is aggravating as well. Peter jumps slightly as his bare feet make contact with the tiles, eyes wide, before grumbling and striding over to the cabinet where his toothbrush is. With more focus than probably necessary, Peter guides his shaking hands to shut the cupboard, and-

 

Peter gives a small wince at his reflection. He’s pale, and the rings under his eyes have seen better days. It’s not as bad as some of the other patrol nights, where he can come home with blood spattered all over him, but it isn’t exactly the prettiest thing either, so he ignores the mirror image in favour of tapping the cabinet weakly like it can dispel the reflection. He’s probably just exhausted from healing last night’s cuts and bruises. That’s why he’s pale. Nothing else. And the shivering is just because he can’t thermoregulate for crap anymore. He can put on a hoodie over his sweater if he has to.

 

The good thing about his senses being so wonky right now is that the morning death taste is less revolting than before. It also stops the taste of peppermint from being so disgusting to him, so he doesn’t have to rush through his teeth-brushing like normal. But still, he’s getting cold again, so Peter walks back through the halls to his bedroom. May would have killed him for how messy it is right now, clothes and paper strewn across the place; a couple of things held precariously in place by globs of web fluid. That’s not even getting started on how many things have been webbed to the ceiling by now. Peter stumbles as he puts on a pair of woollen socks, sighing in relief as the numbing cold in his system starts to fade, and snags a hoodie off his chair before heading down into the living area. May’s not there when he arrives so Peter guesses she has to be at work early today, and flops down onto the sofa promptly. Usually she would have admonished him for flipping and climbing all over the furniture, but she isn’t in right now, so a few flips have to be okay, right…? Peter shakes his head and lifts some rogue hair out of his eyes. He’s so befuddled today. And he’s left his bag in his room, like an idiot. Groaning, he stands up and pats himself down. It has to be the dust that’s making his nose feel so funny. Maybe that means his senses are coming back from their break.

 

And his bag’s contents are scattered across the floor and ceiling when he gets there. He could cry.

 

With a sigh, Peter jumps up and sticks by a hand, using the other to pull various pencils and a calculator down from their web-prisons and drops them to the floor. He can worry about putting it all in the pencil case later on, but for now he needs to get all the things that will stop him from getting murdered, both by his teachers and by street thugs. Peter secures the web shooters to his wrists, hidden easily beneath his sweater and too-big hoodie, and shoves everything into the gray pencil case in his bag.

 

The compass stabs him, more than just the once, and he hardly has the energy to do much more than just stare at the pinpricks on blood on his hand and sigh. What a great way to start his day. 

 

Peter zips up his bag slightly harsher than necessary, and spends the next three minutes trying to reattach the zipper before giving up entirely. He has sticky fingers for a reason. Who needs zippers? With an overly dramatic groan that doesn’t quite hide the wince in his voice as his head reminds him he’s probably dehydrated, he butts his bedroom door closed and heads back down the halls. He checks his phone display quickly — 7:25. He’s got loads of time before he has to start the journey to school. Hopefully, enough time to grab something to eat and be able to stomach it. Peter’s not an idiot, he knows that the kind of achy sensation in his stomach means it’s gonna be a tough day to convince his body to  _ not _ throw everything he eats back up. With some time and a lot of focus, maybe he’ll be able to actually eat today. 

 

Even when it’s the easiest thing to eat, Peter only just manages to choke down some toast before having to stop. Hell, his stomach is roiling at the very thought of eating more — so he can imagine how successful actually trying will wind up being. Besides, it’s better than nothing. He can’t throw that back up. 

 

He puts his plate up uncomfortably, wincing slightly at the sweat beading at the back of his neck. It’s already getting too hot, even though he still feels too cold. Ugh.  Honestly, screw being ill. So, with little food in his system and swamped in clothes, Peter locks the door to the apartment and starts the journey to school.

 

Mistake number 1.

 

If it’s possible, he’s even more exhausted by the time he manages to get to school. There’s sweat uncomfortably trickling down his spine, his mouth is dry, and his head is spinning. Maybe he should have just stayed at home today; slept in and taken care of himself for once. Peter is pretty sure he’s earned that at least. But  _ no. _ Mistake of all mistakes, he decided he could survive the school day like  _ this. _ He might be on fire, for how hot his body has gotten in the past few seconds.

 

Peter rests his head against the cool surface of his locker, huffing out an exhale like he’d run a marathon.  _ God, _ the cold metal is wonderful against his overheated face. 

 

Without any warning, his spidey-sense starts up (on the scale that usually means,  _ hey, you’re gonna die, man,  _ crud) and he’s forced to snap to hazy awareness. Peter whips his head around, but- there’s nothing around. He’s just staring into the hall, eyes wide, pale as anything, looking for nothing.

“Hey, Peter.” He jumps back slightly before he sees Ned staring at him, eyes concerned before he’s given a gentle shoulder squeeze. Peter can’t tell if the warmth in his cheeks is fever heat or blushing. Ned’s hand trails down his arm, squeezing the wrist before finally releasing it’s grip. Peter blinks, woozy, and slumps back into his locker.

“You look like crap.”

“Mm. Thanks.” When he sways, Ned’s hand steadies him again. He’s- he’s so, so exhausted. Coming in was a mistake, he should have just stayed down for once.

 

He blinks. Shudders. Pressure starts to build at the back of his head again, too fast to even flinch, then-

 

His spidey-sense goes off again, to the point where he has to cover his ears when the bell goes off. His entire head is pounding, he’s drowning under the input, he’s- he’s-

 

Peter swallows a mouthful of bile. He has to get to class. Spanish…? Ned has to semi-guide him there and he’s- on a cloud, for a lack of any better description. It’s like he’s been forcefully detached from his body, and now his mind is floating really high above everything else. When he collapses into his seat, he rests his cheek against the desk for some brief respite from his fever heat, and nearly moans in relief at the cold. The words on the board make no sense, the writing in his book is unfamiliar, when people speak, it’s like they’re speaking through water and he  _ can’t make sense of anything. _ Hell, a car honks in the distance, but his spidey-sense goes off so weirdly that he nearly snaps his pen in the middle of the foggy, hard to see word he’s writing.

 

Peter takes a few breaths to try and calm himself down, but it doesn’t really do much to help. There’s too much happening at once — too many noises, too bright lights, he’s sweating and shivering now, and his stomach keeps cramping. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up. He flushes slightly when Ned gives him a concerned look from his own seat across the class, then a dizzying wave of vertigo crashes into him and he has to rest his head on his desk again.

 

His headache is spiralling off into a migraine now. Is he meant to be able to feel his heartbeat in his eyes? Probably not, but he  _ can,  _ so he’ll just deal with that. Maybe. And maybe he holds his breath when the bell goes off at the end of the lesson, and he can’t stop the hairs on his arms from raising up in response. Maybe he has to gather his wits for a few seconds before he stands. And maybe Ned guides him away from the gym and towards the nurse’s office-

 

Wait.

 

No, that wasn’t part of the plan.

“W-what? I can’t go to the nurse’s, Ned, May’s at work and-” He has to stop speaking, lest he actually puke in the hallway or something. There’s many things he can bounce back from, both as an enhanced individual and as a person, but he’d actually have to die on the spot if he puked at school. The back of his skull is burning ice cold, telling him to  _ duck move get out the way bad things hurt run _ and he just. Can’t. Make. Sense. Of. Anything.

“Peter. You look like you’re about to pass out.” 

 

So maybe can hear his heartbeat in his brain and he’s nearly thrown up twice in the past second. That doesn’t mean- it doesn’t-

“But-” 

 

He winces when the back of his head screams another warning, and just lets Ned pull him into the nurse’s room. Maybe he should just head home today. Coming in wasn’t worth it.

 

They’re ushered in immediately after they knock at the door (Peter’s is more of a limp slap, his arms are too weak for any real force behind it), and while he can’t see his appearance, Peter is willing to bet it’s worse than what he looked like this morning. So, probably sheet-white, flushed cheeks and black rings under his eyes. Ned puts Peter’s bag down by the door and mouths  _ ‘be careful’ _ before giving him a small smile and leaving again.

 

Peter appreciates how Ned even took the time to get him to the nurse’s. He’s already late for his next class because of Peter, so it’s the least he can do to weakly wave back.

“Mr. Parker? Oh- you should sit down.” The nurse’s voice is so concerned it’s almost heartwarming, except he’s probably dying and his literal brain is trying to leave him. Peter slumps onto the plush, worn chair at cradles his head gently. There’s too much input, and he can’t even get himself thinking past the fact that his spidey-sense just keeps going off and he’s gotta be dying, right?

“How are you feeling?”  _ Like shit.  _

“Everything hurts.”

“Have you eaten today?”  _ Hardly. _

“Mhm.”

“Have you been sleeping well recently?”  _ Depends if you call about two hours a night ‘well’. _

“Mhm.”

“Nobody’s bullying you?”  _ Just New York’s criminals, why’d you ask? _

“No more than normal.”

 

Peter doesn’t protest when she takes his temperature, and doesn’t ask why she’s suddenly balking like that. Instead, he just curls up into a little ball and tries to ignore the building migraine behind his eyes and how his spidey-sense is going off every few seconds now.

 

_ chair-trip-desk-scissors-paper cuts-stapler-puncture danger in danger run run run hide stop run get away danger danger danger DANGER. _

 

He clutches at his head.

“Mr. Parker? Are you okay?”

“...headache…” He can’t really hear himself slurring, but the word feels heavy and stretchy in his mouth, like chewing gum.

 

“I think we’ll have to send you home, Mr. Parker.” Peter blearily opens his too-hazy eyes, waiting for the room to focus into shapes and colours instead of a blur.

“My Aunt’s at work- I can’t call her back.” 

“Peter-” 

“She’s working. I’m fine.” He mumbles stubbornly, despite how his head throbs with pain.

“No offence, Mr. Parker, but you’re running a fever and most likely have the flu. You’re not fine. Do you have a friend or carer you can call to take you home?” 

“Um…” He thinks of calling Happy or Mr. Stark, but they’re probably busy and he’s just some kid. They don’t need to stop working for him. 

“Not really? I can just walk home, it’s-” Peter has to stop as a hacking cough interrupts him, harsh and painful. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You have to have at least someone you can call, Peter.”

 

Peter doesn’t want to disturb them, not now. He’s not important enough for that. But the vertigo and fever is getting worse, and he just feels sick now, so…

“I have someone. But they might be at work.” 

“Peter, hey. If they care, they’ll come for you, okay? How about you call them, and I’ll tell them what’s wrong? You just try to rest while they come here.”

 

He can’t think anymore. His head- is throbbing, the world twisting to pieces and distorting… So Peter dials Happy’s number and hands the lady the phone, resting his forehead against the (filthy) wall to try and cool down. It doesn’t work very well.

 

He just listens in as the dial tone sounds, and a click rings out.

“Hello? This is Nurse Jones from Midtown High. Who is this?” 

 

“Okay, Mr. Hogan, can I just confirm that you know Peter Parker? Yes, okay- He’s sick, and his Aunt is at work and can’t come home.” 

 

“Okay, okay. Yes. Would you be able to drop him back at his home? It wouldn’t be right for me to send him home like this.” 

 

“You’ll pick him up? Great. Thank you so much, I’ll see you in…?” 

 

“Half an hour? Yeah, okay. Bye.”

 

He’s just getting warmer and warmer now. His body feels like a furnace, and he’s melting inside it. Too dizzy, shivering and sweating,  _ coldcoldcoldhot- _

“Can I have a cool pack? My head…” He croaks. He’s handed a towel-wrapped ice pack to rest his head against, and it does a lot better than the wall.

  
  


He gratefully takes the ice pack when it’s handed to him-

_ hypothermia _

-and ignores his spidey-sense as it flares up.

  
  


It works fine.

 

For a few minutes.

 

And then his stomach flips, and the sweat on his brow turns cold.

“I’m gonna throw up.” It comes out as a whisper, but the nurse hears anyway and a bin is shoved under his chin just in time for him to double over, heaving.

 

_ Ow. _

 

Oh,  _ god.  _ He threw up in school. At least it wasn’t in the hallway. Life not quite over, then.

 

Peter shudders weakly, but he’s way too cold and tired to put his hoodie back on. The bin is taken from under his chin. With nothing to keep him upright, Peter slumps. He can hear the nurse trying to talk to him, but he can’t really converse properly so he just nods slightly and listens to her speak.

“Mr. Hogan will be here soon, Peter. Can you hang on ‘til then?” 

“Y-yeah. I- I- I’ll live. I’ll be fine…”

 

He shouldn’t have come in. 

 

Time drags by, but eventually, he’s granted a reprieve. The nurse mumbles that Happy’s shown up to get him, but he can’t look up because he’s so  _ tired _ and he doesn’t feel strong enough to lift his head.

“Peter?”

“Mm…?” He forces himself upright, one eye hardly opened.

“Did you hear me…? Mr. Hogan is here to pick you up. Are you sure you don’t need to go to a hospital or anything?”  _ No way. _

“‘m fine.”

“Okay. I’ll sign you out, you just- you just get home, and you get better.”

“‘kay.” 

 

Everything’s blurring now. He stands  _ (woozycoldcan’tseestraight), _ then he’s in the smooth, plush interior of Happy’s car. He blinks hazily. It’s all he can to to rest his head on window to cool himself down. Not that that works.

“Kid?”

Peter doesn’t respond. He’s way too exhausted. 

“Shit, kid. You have to be pretty out of it, huh?” Peter can’t do much more than huff a quiet breath in response as his spidey-sense is triggered by little unimportant thing #23 and the pain in his head flares up again.

“I think you should come up to the compound. You’re not looking good, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone like this.”

 

The car smoothly starts up, Peter’s stomach lurching all the while, and then they’re moving. The vibrations are  _ awful.  _ They scrape at his brain like steel wool. He’s still sweating and shivering, even though the car is probably warm like Happy likes it and he’s layered to hell. Peter clenches his (really pale, why…?) hand in his sweater, bunching the fabric up between trembling fingers. 

“Hey, Tony. I’m bringing the kid up to the compound.” Peter  _ nearly _ opens an eye to respond.

 

It’s not been too long since Toomes, and time spent with Mr. Stark is still kind of awkward, especially given that Peter still can’t get over the whole hero-worship thing. Now he’s gonna burden the guy with himself…? Suddenly, he’s certain he should have just stuck it out (because this one’s gonna be tough as hell to get through for his pride). 

 

“Peter? Shouldn’t he be at school?” Mr. Stark’s voice is almost  _ really _ concerned, which is funny, because what’s Peter done to warrant that…?

“He  _ was. _ Nurse called, told me he’s sick and his Aunt’s at work. He’s running a pretty high fever over here.”

“Crap. How high?” And the concern’s notched up here, almost tangible to Peter, even when his mind’s clouded by delirium and exhaustion.

“Nurse said 101ºF when she filled me in.”

“ _ Shit. _ I’ll go get some cool packs or some antipyretics or water… first, lemme just… Am I on loudspeaker?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Okay, kid?”

He hums quietly.

“Okay, that’s the best I’ll get… How you feeling?”

Peter has to bite back any response he was about to say as a bubble of nausea bursts in his stomach. The car is lurching around too much for him to speak. 

“I think he’s dozing, for now.”

“Okay, that’s fine. We can work with that. He want anything?”

“I think he’s asleep.”  _ I wish. _

“Hot.” Peter chokes out the syllable. He has to stop breathing as the car turns a sharp corner, and his stomach decides  _ hey, I’m moving house into your throat and you can’t change my mind.  _

“He says he feels too hot. Maybe a cool pack?”

“See, now we’re getting somewhere! He  _ need _ anything?”  _ To not be sick? _

He closes his eyes. He’s pretty sure he makes a noise, but he can’t tell. 

“Oh, kid... Happy, he look like he needs anything in specific?”

“A week off, a shit ton of cool packs, comfort food and water?”  _ Sleep sounds nice. _

“Yeah, I can do that. Okay. Kid, you just hang tight, okay? You hang tight, and I’ll get the compound ready for you.”  _ You don’t gotta do that for me, come on, I’m fine. _

“‘kay.”  _ Oh, come on. Mouth. Stop that.  _

“Happy, you bring him here safely, okay? His Aunt’s gonna kill me.”  _ Oh, shit, May doesn’t know- _

“Will do, Tony.”

“Cool, cool. Don’t die, kid.”  _ No promises.  _

 

When the staticky, numb feeling decides to colonise his brain, he doesn’t try to resist it. He’s exhausted; he’s basically welcoming sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Come on, kid, we’re here.”

 

“Kid?”

 

“Peter?”

 

_ “Crap.” _

 

_ “Fucking hell- _ you passed out…?”

 

“Kid, come on, help me out here.”

 

_ “Fuck.” _

  
  


Something has him. Grip’s tight.

 

_ (danger danger danger danger run run RUN) _

 

He tries to fight the guy — _who is it who is it what’s happening why am I_ _stuck_ — off, but he can’t get his arms to cooperate anymore.

 

“Tony, he’s gotten worse.”  _ What?  _

 

“Higher fever- won’t wake up- carrying him, why-? Okay, I’m on my way-”

 

Impacts. Footsteps…? He’s being taken somewhere. Where? Where, where, where…? What-?

 

_ (this place is dangerous not safe gonna get hurt too much people things powers enhanced danger) _

 

The grip changes. It’s soft now, supporting his whole body. Not just his torso. A cold breeze sweeps past his forehead — too cold now, too cold-

 

“Oh, holy  _ shit.  _ What the fuck, Happy, you didn’t say he was  _ this bad.”  _ The person sounds horrified, and his face is slightly tapped. He’s still too far under to respond.

“Fucking- FRIDAY, get Helen. You didn’t tell me that goddamn ibuprofen wouldn’t be able to fix this!” 

 

“I didn’t know! He was  _ okay _ on the way up, then he just- passed out!”

 

Finally, he manages to convince himself to actually  _ move. _

 

Peter moans in pain. He can feel his expression scrunching up  _ (too hot too hot where am I what’s happening feel sick)  _ as he jerkily moves his limbs so he’s curled into a small ball.

“Does his Aunt know?”

 

“Not yet. She’s at work. Apparently the kid refused to call her to get him.”

 

“So you brought him up here  _ because-?” _ The voice is snappy, now, and he feels like he should move away from it. Or just… not be there in general.

 

If he could see Tony, he’d see the panic.

 

_ (still not safe protected? danger too many things too many people) _

 

“He’s sick, Tony, and I don’t think it’s safe for him to be alone right now.”

 

“Right, right, yeah- FRIDAY, do we have an ETA on Helen yet?”

 

_ ‘Give her a minute, she’s on her way up.’ _

 

“Jesus Christ- Can you scan him while we wait?”

 

_ ‘Core temperature resting at 104ºF.’ _

 

_ “Motherfucker-”  _ The hissed curse nearly drags him out of oblivion, “Lower the temperature in here by a few degrees.”

 

A cool breeze instantly flows into the place, and while it takes away some of the cloud hanging over his mind…

 

He’s  _ freezing.  _ Tightening the ball he’s curled into seems to be the only way to stop the ice-cold air from stealing away all of his heat, but he can’t get his muscles to  _ listen to him _ and he really, really feels like crap right now. His distress must be more visible than he’d like, because the voices hush up and he can’t help but feel that there’s too much attention on him.

 

“Kid? You awake?” That’s- that’s Mr. Stark. Right. He’s- at the compound…? He’s sick. Shouldn’t have gone into school. It’s cold.

“Mm…?”

 

_ (run you need to run or hide danger get away HIDE) _

“Oh, thank fuck. Don’t do that again.” Mr. Stark’s voice is strangely relieved, but he’s fine, so why’s everyone worrying? He’s just tired, no problem, he can deal with it alone  _ (always alone safer that way nobody gets hurt only me better let me go-). _

“Mm.”

“You gonna open your eyes?”

“Nuh uh.”  _ Really, now is  _ not  _ the time to be acting like a kid in front of Mr. Stark, I’m fine, just need to go home and sleep it off and I’ll be fine like always, better to deal with it alone. _

“-kay, kid.” Oh? Everything’s getting all fuzzy again, not in the fever way, in the  _ super tired should have gone to sleep seven days ago _ sort of way.

 

He hears footsteps clacking down the hall, getting closer.

_ (DANGER danger in danger need to hide right now get somewhere safe not safe identity May keep her safe) _

 

The goddamn spidey-sense needs to stop  _ (stop stop stop stop STOP.). _

 

The steps enter the room, and there’s the quiet mumbling of chatter before it goes quiet again and yeah, maybe now is the time to show that  _ he’s fine stop worrying. _

He tries his best not to sway when Helen does her… thing…, but he’s pretty sure it happens anyways. He can’t help it. He’s not slept in forever, and he has exactly no energy left in his body to do more than just breathe and blink. In fact, the second she stands again, Peter curls back up and closes his eyes. There’s too much happening at once, and his spidey-sense won’t shut the hell up- 

 

He doesn’t listen to what Helen says to Mr. Stark — hell, he hardly even tries to. The words are muffled under the water he feels like he’s submerged in. He’s a little more than a little wrapped up in his own discomfort right now; the way he feels like he’s melting inside his icicle of a body and his stomach is crawling into places it  _ really  _ probably shouldn’t go. 

“-id.”

 

And yeah, he’s  _ super  _ tired and hasn’t eaten much since not eating much this morning and then throwing it back up, so maybe he should have just  _ not  _ tried existing today. 

 

“-ou okay, kid?”

 

Actually, now he’s thinking of it, he’s getting dizzy again. Too little energy? Food? About to throw up again? Who knows? Peter wishes he wasn’t at the compound, though, because he wants  _ May _ to make him feel safe and with his spidey-sense going off like it is, he really doesn’t. 

 

“-rth to Peter, come in-”

 

_ Egh.  _ Being sick is horrible. This is the first time since the bite, right…? How’d he forget how horrible it is?

 

“Peter!” He blinks. Mr. Stark’s right in front of him, hands on his shoulders — he’d been shaking him…?

“Wha’?”

 

The older man’s face turns sympathetic; worried, even. Peter just blinks. He’s missed something.

“Did you get any of that?”

 

...nope. He shakes his head in a negative affirmation. Mr. Stark’s eyes hold some emotion that he can’t quite name (but dares to call affection, which is crazy because he’s just some kid), and he almost looks sad that Peter’s not-sick.

 

Weird.

 

Peter slumps back and huffs out a sigh. 

 

_ not in danger but run hide never safe too much _

 

“Kid, come on. Let’s get you somewhere quieter.” An arm loops around his waist, and Peter’s eyes fly open when he’s dragged into a standing position. His head is  _ spinning.  _ He stumbles, but lets Mr. Stark slowly direct him around the compound. He’s getting too hot again.

 

_ (don’t fall stay upright get away somewhere safe and stay there until you’re better not in any condition to fight if someone finds you) _

 

Everything is melting into one huge, obtrusive feeling, pressing hard into his skull, and Peter is wracked with a sudden urge to cry. Or throw up. Forcibly, he swallows the urge down until he can’t notice it anymore, and keeps walking with Mr. Stark.

“You with me, kiddo?”

“Mhm.”

“Can you speak for me?”

“Feel sick.”

“I can imagine, kid. Fever  _ that _ high… you shouldn’t even be awake.”

“’m tired.”

“Yeah… you can sleep in a minute. Let’s just get you to your room first, okay?”

 

_ He has a room?  _ Right, the compound- the offering of a place on the Avengers came with the room-

 

He falters a few times, but after each one, he’s caught by Mr. Stark. By the time they get to the door, Peter’s dead on his feet and yeah, really feeling like puking is an option he should take to purge this from his system.

 

And then they’re in his room.

 

And Peter’s eyes widen.

 

It’s so…  _ him.  _ From the huge windows to the spacey design and the nerd things (Star Trek and Star Wars?!) in their neat, crisp places, it’s clearly been designed with him in mind. And Peter’s heart warms at the thought.

“Yeah- Tried to make it fit you. Try to do that with every room, but I took a few liberties, and-”

“I love it.” He manages to whisper, gazing around in awe. He stumbles over to the bed and sits down on it hesitantly, instantly sinking into the plush material. 

 

It’s so goddamn soft.

 

Peter nearly drifts off instantly, before realising Mr. Stark is still in the room and looking kind of awkward still. Peter winces when his stomach cramps, but keeps himself awake.

“Thank you.”

“No prob, kid. Now if you need me- actually, have FRIDAY get me. You just gotta ask, kiddo.”

“Mhm. Thanks, Mis’er Stark.” 

 

The man gives him a small half-smile before shuffling (awkwardly) out of the room, and Peter’s alone again. With some effort, he wiggles the comforter out from underneath him and drapes it over himself, bunching it in his fists. He’s still wearing his clothes, he knows, but he kicks off his shoes for good measure. He’s so  _ cold. _

 

But he drifts off to sleep quickly.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t last very long.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark when the ache in his stomach wakes him up, the moon just cresting the trees. The silvery light is beautiful, but-

 

His stomach flips, and a cold sweat blossoms on his brow.

 

Ah.

 

Peter fumbles at the comforter and hastily chucks it off, looking blindly for the en suite. With only the dim illumination of the moon guiding him, he has to spend precious seconds searching aimlessly before his fingers brush against the wall and he knows. He only just manages to get the the porcelain bowl of the toilet before what’s left of his meagre breakfast comes back up, and-

 

Warm tears roll down his cheeks. 

 

He really, really doesn’t miss being sick. He’s way too hot and his stomach is doing flips, aching in his throat, and he’s puked twice today alone and this is horrible-

 

With a gasp, Peter slumps down against the cool, marble walls, clutching at his stomach as trembles wrack his frame. He’s got no energy left in him to get back to bed.

 

Little black dots eat away at his vision before he’s in complete darkness again, and-

 

_ you’re still in danger run hide find someone quiet just disappear _

 

_ Shut up. _

  
  


“-ay? FRI told me… -in distress…”

 

“Kid… -need you to answer… -hear me?”

 

“-coming in.”

 

“Oh,  _ shit-” _

 

_ safe? _

 

“I got you, buddy. I got you.” 

 

_ safe. _

 

“You’re safe.”

 

Peter lets himself go, ‘cause that voice is warm and he just has this gut instinct that he’s-

 

_ Safe. _

**Author's Note:**

> i'm discovering a huge affinity for sick fics lol


End file.
